Dust in the Attic
by Kasey D
Summary: This will be a collection of one-shots focused on those connected or directly related to the Black family. More will be added as I complete them. [Up first: Rodolphus is not a jealous man.]


**Title:** Dust in the Attic

 **Summary:** Rodolphus is not a jealous man.

 **Warnings:** torture, dehumanization, hate speech, atypical relationships

* * *

Rodolphus is not a jealous man.

He sees the gleam in Bellatrix's eyes and knows it for what it is; possession. Lust. Want as black as her blood or the mark curving against the soft flesh of her arm. Her expression is one of obsession, fanaticism, but Rodolphus understands it. Respects it, even. He feels the same desire to be recognized anchored deep in the pit of his stomach. A tether drawing him to the wizard with the blood of the great Salazar Slytherin in his veins—the purest of all purebloods. The only pureblood worth recognizing in his decaying world run rampant with dirty blood and muggle filth.

There is nothing greater than the regard of their Lord.

Rabastan does not fully understand Rodolphus's apathy. "She is your wife," he whispers, keeping his voice low, afraid his opinion would be unwelcome. Rodolphus does not know how to tell his brother there is nothing to fear, that Rabastan's thoughts on the state of his marriage are welcome even if they are not worth noting. "Yet she looks upon our Lord as if he is her lover, not you."

 _He is,_ Rodolphus thinks. Bellatrix desires—perhaps even loves—their Lord more than the purity of her own blood, than her own littlest sister.

(Narcissa, not Andromeda. Andromeda is a mark on the family honor, an unwanted pestilence Bellatrix pretends does not exist, despite the truth Rodolphus keeps hidden in his silence. He knows, better than anyone, how Andromeda's defection burned-burned- _burned_ in the way a hundred _Crucios_ never would.)

Their marriage is built on necessity and respectability. There exists no passion or sexual want, only duty. Rodolphus is at peace with that.

He and Bellatrix work well together; her cruelty is just as sharp as his own, his devotion to the cause just barely beat out by her own. Their rage in the wake of the Dark Lord's fall is a twin reflection of the other, echoes repeated into infinity. Rodolphus sees himself in Bellatrix, the obligation that requires them to move, to keep looking.

"He is not dead!" Bellatrix shrieks in a burst of fervent denial once they hear the news. "He would never be killed by some filthy half-blood!"

"He is not dead," Rodolphus agrees, but he recognizes the desperation in Bellatrix's eyes, scents the fear clinging to her like blood on the water.

They hunt.

Frank and Alice Longbottom are revenge, of a sort, a mission of retribution their Lord requested they carry out before he left in search of the Potters.

"They have defied me, more than is allowable," the Dark Lord said to Bellatrix, voice so, so soft. "You must teach them what it means to earn the anger of Lord Voldemort."

A final— _no, not final,_ Rodolphus decides, _we will find him, our Lord is not lost—_ command that everyone is only too pleased to carry out.

The blood-traitors are expecting them. Rodolphus's blood pumps fast in his veins, adrenaline spiking like a cool, ardent mistress once Rabastan tears down the wards. Frank is unsurprised by their appearance, shooting off a spell almost as soon as his front door is blasted off the hinges. Rodolphus leaves him to Rabastan and Bartemius, moving swiftly through the house in pursuit of the wife. Alice fires off a _Reducto—_ the spell clips the bookshelf, sending wood splinters and papers flying. Bellatrix ducks beneath the attack, her laughter ringing throughout the fight like a death knell, a sickly sweet promise of hurt and pain and _agony_.

"The boy, the boy!" Bellatrix orders, flinging up a shield just as another hex almost hits her in the face. "Find the boy, Rodolphus!"

Alice is capable for a blood-traitor, but Bellatrix is better; her spell work is quick and fast, sadistic in its nature and completely unrelenting. Rodolphus tries for a Blood-Boiling Curse, snarls as Alice quickly transfigures a flower pot into a marble centaur to take the hit. The centaur explodes in a hail of black stone; debris bounces off of the opalescent shimmer of their shields, glimmering faintly in the darkness. Another barrage of spells are exchanged, streams of reds and greens and purples lighting up the air like an explosion of firecrackers.

Bella's eyes positively gleam, and Rodolphus senses the cutting curse before it hits. Alice's shoulder erupts in a spray of blood—red, red, oh so _red_ —Bella's satisfied laughter reaching new heights as Alice staggers, only to be caught right in the gut with a violent, " _Crucio!_ "

Alice screams.

Rodolphus makes quick work of the rest of the house—he is close, he thinks, so close to completing this mission for his master. So close to teaching the Longbottoms—those _traitors_ —what it means to go against the Dark Lord, the punishments that are in store for them, but—

—but the baby is not there.

The crib is empty; the sheets cool to the touch. The room is stale, as if it has been empty for weeks. Something fierce, like rage, bubbles up from the pit of his stomach. His fury is as all-consuming as Bellatrix's cruelty and just as sharp; a blasting curse destroys the crib, the rocking chair, the broomstick mobile hanging from the ceiling. He lights a baby book on fire, contemplates unleashing the searing brutality of Fiendfyre, but knows there are more important things to consider.

"Where is he?" He thunders, pressing his wand to the meat of Alice's neck. " _Where is the boy?_ "

The blood-traitor laughs. "He's _gone,_ " she cries, voice the grating sound of shattered glass. There is blood on her lips and sweat on her brow. Her body trembles with each stuttered breath she takes. A truly pathetic sight, a pureblood brought so low, but she is a traitor, openly defiant of the Dark Lord and Rodolphus does not pity her. No. He relishes the pain Bellatrix bestowed upon her. He only wishes he did not need information so his wife could give out more. "You'll _never_ find him, Lestrange. Not—not my Neville. He has—" Her voice cracks in victory. "He has a _secret keeper._ "

Behind them, the explosion of spells dies down. Then, Frank begins to scream.

Alice's eyes jump, yet she has no time to take in the sight of her husband; she is utterly defenseless, her wand clutched in Bellatrix's firm grip, unable to fight back.

"You will regret defying our Master," Bellatrix croons, smoothing the hair from Alice's face. "Once we've finished with you, we will find your son, your itty-bitty baby Neville, and we will do to him what we will do to you."

Tears leak from Alice's eyes. "No. Not my son. He's safe. You won't win. Voldemort is _dead—_ "

" _CRUCIO!_ " Bella yells, eyes blazing. Alice's body seizes up, thrashes. Her fingers scrabble against the ground while her back arches in a grotesque line. Her throat opens on a constant wail, again and again and again.

Bellatrix has always been her most beautiful when she is immersed in her cruelty, Rodolphus believes, though his heart never skips a beat. There is a flutter in his veins, not at the prospect of his wife, but at the knowledge of what she does; she gives herself to their Master, to their ideals without an ounce of hesitation. Bellatrix is steadfast. She believes wholeheartedly in what she does. This act is for Bellatrix as much as it is for their Master—the Dark Lord is not dead, and Rodolphus knows he will follow his wife to the ends of the earth until they find him.

They take turns holding Alice under the Cruciatus Curse until her eyes go glassy, until the spit is streaming down her chin and her protests are nothing more than nonsensical cries. She sees nothing but feels everything. Nothing left in that filthy blood-traitor's brain—no will, no resistance, no fight.

No Neville.

Bellatrix is still laughing when the Aurors finally come.

* * *

The trial is farce. The world knows what Rodolphus is, what he has sacrificed and given up. The Wizengamot reads it in the blankness of his face, the lack of words he speaks; he does not regret what he did to the Longbottoms, relishes their suffering. Rodolphus would do that and more if it meant securing the rule of his Master.

Bellatrix sits beside him, face bright with glee and sings their Lords praises, promises the Dark Lord will rise again, swears he is not gone. She loves the Dark Lord, Rodolphus knows. Rabastan still does not understand his brother's acquiescence, how he can sit idly back and follow his wife when her heart is fixated on another, but that is simply because Rabastan does not understand that Bellatrix and Rodolphus are one in their loyalty, twin reflections of the cause. The icy grip of the Dementor's Touch will not affect them, because their happiest memories _are_ pain and hurt and agony. Because Bella's happiest memories are the ones made by her Master's side, bringing the Wizarding World to heel, reminding it of the times before when muggles were prey and purebloods were might.

Bellatrix will give up everything for the Dark Lord she loves, but then again, so will Rodolphus.

He is not a jealous man.


End file.
